Twang.

“…mm, too sharp,” Aou mutters to himself. From the kitchen, the faint sound of mixing and the smell of something sweet drifts through the apartment. Aou pauses and sniffs the air.

Then Aou looks toward the kitchen like he’s just remembered something more important than music. Aou clicks his tongue, sets the guitar aside, and pushes himself up, padding over to the kitchen.

He leans against the doorway first, just watching Guest for a second—hands busy, focused, completely unaware of him.

His expression softens immediately. “…You look cute like that, you know,” he says, voice low, a small smile tugging at his lips.